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ENGLISH READINGS 
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SELECTIONS EROH 
THE LAKE POETS. 


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4> 1 The Pime of the Ancient Mariner | 4, 

| COLERIDGE. 


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39424 

Copyright 1899, 

By C. G. AINSWORTH 


TWO COPIES RECEIVED. 



^laJUa 'h US9 . 


V. I & ' 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


It is an ancient Mariner, 

And he stoppeth one of three 

Reduced, from draw- 
ings by 

E. H. Wehnert 

Page. 

21 

Merrily did we drop 

Below the kirk , below the hill 

Birket Foster 

22 

Nodding their heads before her goes 

The merry minstrelsy 


. 24 

And ice , mast-high , came floating by , 

As green as emerald 


• 25 

And every day , for food or play , 

Came the mariners ’ hollo! 

E. H. Wehnert 

. 27 

With my cross-bozu 

I shot the Albatross 


. 28 

11 Ah, wretch ! ” said they , “ the bird to slay. 
That made the breeze to blow ! ” . 

E. H. Wehnert 

. 2 9 

idle as a painted ship , 

Upon a painted ocean 


• 31 

Instead of the cross, the Albatross 

About my neck was hung ...... 


32 

When looking zuestward, I beheld 

A something in the sky 


• 34 

When that strange shape drove suddenly 
Betwixt us and the Sun 


• 36 

I fear thee, ancient Mariner ! 

I fear thy skinny hand ! . ... 


• 39 

The moving Moon went up the sky, 

And nowhere did abide 


• 42 


v 


VI 


ILLUSTRATIONS . 


A spring of love gushed from my heart , 

And I blessed them unaware 


Till noon we quietly sailed on , 

Yet never a breeze did breathe .... 

. E. Duncan . . . t 47 

1 heard , and in my soul discerned 

Two voices in the air 


And on the bay the moonlight lay , 

And the shadow of the moon 

. Birket Foster . 53 

The skiff-boat neared: I heard them talk, 

“ Why , this is strange , I trow!” 

E. H. Wehnert . 56 

The boat came closer to the ship , 

But I nor spake nor stirred 


/ took the oars : the Pilot' s boy 

Who now doth crazy go 


To walk together to the kirk , 

And all together pray 



He prayeth best , who loveth best 
All things both great and small. 


E. H. Wehnert 63 


INTRODUCTION. 



HE life of Coleridge, except his early manhood, 


J- yields little but sorrow in the reviewing. He was 
a dreamy, introspective child, “born old,” without 
any taste for the outdoor sports natural to his years, 
his only amusement being books and the acting out of 
scenes either read or imagined. He says of himself : 
“ Alas ! I had all the simplicity, all the docility of the v 
child, but none of the child’s habits. I never thought 
as a child — never had the language of a child. ” 

The first eight years of his life he was instructed at 
home. In his ninth year his first sorrow came, the 
death of his dearly loved father and instructor. In 
his eleventh year, already a poet, he entered the 
“Blue Coat” school, where he remained till he was 
eighteen. Charles Lamb, his schoolmate and lifelong 
friend, gives us this picture of him: “How have I 
seen the casual passer through the cloisters stand still, 
entranced with admiration (while he weighed the dis- 
proportion between the speech and the garb of the 
young Mirandula), to hear thee unfold in thy deep 
and sweet intonations the mysteries of Iamblichus or 
Plotinus (for even in those days thou waxedst not 
pale at such philosophic draughts), or reciting Homer 


INTRODUCTION. 


viii 

in the Greek, or Pindar, while the walls of the old 
Grey Friars re-echoed with the accents of the inspired 
charity boy.” 

He showed his precocity not so much by his schol- 
arship, nor even by his youthful verses, which were 
of unusual merit, as by his speculative turn of mind. 
Coleridge, in his “ Biographia Literaria, ” writes: 
“ At a very premature age, even before my fifteenth 
year, I had bewildered myself in metaphysics and in 
theological controversy. Nothing else pleased me. 
History and particular facts lost all interest in my 
mind. Poetry (though for a schoolboy of that age I 
was above par in English versification, and had already 
produced two or three compositions which, I may ven- 
ture to say, were somewhat above mediocrity, and 
which had gained me more credit than the sound good 
sense of my old master was at all pleased with), — 
poetry itself, yea, novels and romance, became insipid 
to me.” 

He was wiled back to the paths of poetry through 
the perusal of the sonnets of Bowles (an extraordinary 
explanation, but his own). Coleridge himself regarded 
this turn for metaphysical speculation as a mental dis- 
ease, and did not again indulge it until he was no 
longer master of himself. To this sad time he alludes 
in his “ Biographia : ” “ But if, in after-time, I have 
sought a refuge from bodily pain and mismanaged sen- 
sibility in abstruse researches, which exercised the 


INTRODUCTION. ix 

strength and subtlety of the understanding without 
awakening the feelings of the heart, there was a 
long and blessed interval, during which my natural 
faculties were allowed to expand, and my original 
tendencies to develop themselves, — my fancy and the 
love of nature and the sense of beauty in forms and 
sounds. ” 

Of his university days, we know little. He read 
much, but his reading was desultory and uneven ; he 
won a gold medal for a Greek ode on the slave-trade; 
his room was the rendezvous of the ardent young 
spirits of the college, fired with the burning topic of 
the French Revolution, and with zeal for political 
reform. Lovell, and Seward, and Burnett were of 
the group ; but Coleridge was the center and heart 
of it all, fascinating them with his wonderful voice 
and grace of manner, and copious and eloquent flow 
of language. 

The escapade of his college life is not well under- 
stood. One explanation is disappointment in love; 
another, despondency over debts; his natural disquie- 
tude of mind might be offered as a third. Whatever 
the causd, the circumstances are these : He came up 
to London with a slender purse, and, after a few days, 
was compelled, through sheer want, to enlist as a pri- 
vate in the Fifteenth Light Dragoons, under the name 
of Silas Titus Comberback, a name he considered 
appropriate because of his poor horsemanship. A 


INTRODUCTION. 


Latin quotation betrayed his probable disguise. The 
matter was investigated. His discharge was obtained, 
and after four months’ service, he returned to Cam- 
bridge. 

In June of 1794, he met Southey, whose lifelong 
friendship was an important influence in the life of 
both. In the same year Southey introduced him to 
Lovell, the brother-in-law of his future wife. He also 
met Cottle, his first publisher. 

Coleridge and Southey and Lovell, in a spirit of fun, 
conceived the idea of writing a joint drama, to be 
called, “The Fall of Robespierre.” Lovell was to 
write the first act, Southey the second, Coleridge the 
third and last. Lovell’s was discarded as inharmoni- 
ous with Southey’s ; Coleridge’s characteristically was 
not done. So Southey rewrote the first, Coleridge 
finished the third. Curiously enough, it is usually 
included in Coleridge’s poems. 

The next project which engaged the young enthusi- 
asts was the founding of a model republic on the 
banks of the Susquehanna. Twenty-eight members 
were secured, but they were a penniless lot ; and to 
raise funds, Coleridge and Southey gave each a course 
of lectures in Bristol. But they brought in but little 
money, and Southey, the leader, departing to Spain 
in search of health, Coleridge, whose emotions soon 
cooled, threw up the matter in disgust and the whole 
scheme of pantisocracy was finally abandoned. 


INTRODUCTION , , 


xi 


Previous to this, however, Coleridge had married 
Sara Fricker, thus fulfilling one of the conditions of 
membership in the new scheme, a second condition 
being an agreement to labor two hours a day, the rest 
of the time to be occupied with literary work. The 
Misses Fricker had more than done their part. One 
was already the wife of Lovell, another was engaged to 
Southey, a third had now become Mrs. Coleridge ; but 
a fourth had refused Burnett, remarking that if he was 
in such a hurry for a wife, he might look elsewhere. 

Coleridge withdrawing from his lectureship, retired 
to Clevedon to spend his honeymoon. Here he spent 
some of the quietest and most contented days of his 
troubled life ; here’ he wrote : — 

“ Low was our pretty cot ; our tallest rose 
Peeped at the chamber window. We could hear 
At silent noon, and eve, and early morn, 

The sea’s faint murmur. In the open air, 

Our myrtles blossomed ; and across the porch 
Thick jasmines twined ; the little landscape round 
Was green and woody, and refreshed the eye. 

It was a spot which you might aptly call 
The Valley of Seclusion ! ” 

Here he revised the poems he had up to this com- 
posed ; and in the spring of 1797 they were published 
by his friend Cottle, who gave him thirty guineas for 
the copyright. The work was a collection of odes, 
sonnets, invocations, and a more imposing poem, 


INTRODUCTION. 


xii 

“Religious Musings,” passages of which are almost 
Miltonic in grandeur of thought, in verbal construc- 
tion and sonorousness. 

“ There is one mind, one omnipresent mind, omnific, 

His most holy name is Love, — 

Truth of subliming import! — with the which 
Who feeds and saturates his constant soul, 

He from his small particular orbit flies 
With bliss outstarting ! from himself he flies, 

Stands in the sun and with no partial gaze, 

Views all creation ; and he loves it all, 

And blesses it, and calls it very good ! 

This is indeed to dwell with the Most High ! 

The cherubs and the trembling seraphim 
Can press no nearer to the Almighty’s throne.’ 

But Coleridge’s restless spirit could not long be con- 
tent; stirring events drew him away from his quiet life. 

“ Was it right, 

While my unnumbered brethren toiled and bled, 

That I should dream away the entrusted hours 
On rose-leaf beds, pamp’ring the coward heart 
With feelings all too delicate for use ! ” 

He chose journalism as the medium of his propa- 
ganda of liberty. The paper was called the “ Watch- 
man,” and in order to avoid the stamp act, was issued 
every eighth day. It lived but through ten numbers, 
as might have been expected from the peculiarity of 
its issue and the heaviness of its contents. 


INTRODUCTION. 


xiii 

Freed from editorial work, Coleridge retired to 
Stowey, entering upon the happiest and most satisfac- 
tory period of his life. He revised his poetical works, 
discarding some poems, and adding new ones. He 
was visited by the Lambs, and by Wordsworth and 
his sister Dorothy. The Wordsworths were so charmed 
with him that they removed to Nether Stowey for the 
sole purpose of being near him. The attraction was 
mutual, and, on Wordsworth’s part at least, strong 
and enduring. The two young men became insepa- 
rable companions, taking daily rambles among the 
Quantock Hills, and discussing their theories in regard 
to the province and expression of poetic thought. 
Their close and sympathetic observation of the beau- 
ties of nature suggested to them what Coleridge called 
“the two cardinal points of poetry.” That as the 
accidents of light and shade, of sunlight and moonlight, 
over a familiar landscape, make the poetry of nature, 
so in literature a series of poems might be written to 
correspond : one, the incidents and agents to be, in 
part at least, supernatural, the interest growing out of 
the dramatic truth of the emotions which naturally 
accompany such literature ; the other, the incidents 
and agents to be chosen from ordinary life — the life 
of any village or hamlet where there is a meditative 
and feeling mind to seek after them or notice them 
when they present themselves. The romantic or 
supernatural section was. assigned to Coleridge, while 


XIV 


INTRODUCTION. 


Wordsworth was to take the realistic, “ to give the 
charm of novelty to things of everyday.” “Lyrical 
Ballads” was the result, the “Ancient Mariner” the 
notable illustration of Coleridge’s theory. 

The inception of the poem, its prosaic origin, is 
interesting, being in such marked contrast to its weird- 
ness. The following is taken from Wordsworth’s 
notes : * ‘ Mr. Coleridge, my sister, and myself started 
from Alfoxden pretty late in the afternoon with a view 
to visit Linton and the Valley of Stones near to it ; 
and as our united funds were very small, we agreed to 
defray the expense of the tour by writing a poem to 
be sent to the New Monthly Magazine. Accordingly 
we set off, and proceeded along the Quantock Hills 
toward Watchet ; and in the course of this walk was 
planned the poem of the “ Ancient Mariner,” founded 
on a dream, as Mr. Coleridge said, of his friend Mr. 
Cruikshank. Much of the greater part of the story 
was Mr. Coleridge’s invention, but certain parts I 
suggested : for example, some crime was to be com- 
mitted which should bring upon the Old Navigator 
(as Coleridge always delighted to call him) the spec- 
tral persecution, as a consequence of that crime and 
his own wanderings. I had been reading in “ Shel- 
vocke’s Voyages,” a day or two before, that while 
doubling Cape Horn they frequently saw albatrosses 
in that latitude, the largest of sea-fowl, some extend- 
ing their wings twelve or thirteen feet. ‘Suppose,’ 


INTRODUCTION. 


xv 


said I, ‘ you represent him as having killed one of 
these birds on entering the South Sea, and that the 
tutelary spirits of those regions take upon them to 
avenge the crime. ’ The incident was thought fit for 
the purpose, and accordingly adopted. I also sug- 
gested the navigation of the ship by the dead men, 
but do not recollect that I had anything more to do 
with the scheme of the poem. The gloss with which 
it was subsequently accompanied was not thought of 
by either of us at the time, at least not a hint of it 
was given to me ; and I have no doubt it was a gratui- 
tous afterthought. We began the composition to- 
gether on that, to me, memorable evening. I furnished 
two or three lines at the beginning of the poem, in 
particular : — 

“ ‘ And listened like a three years’ child : 

The Mariner had his will.’ 

“These trifling contributions, all but one, which Mr. 
Coleridge has with unnecessary scrupulosity 1 recorded, 
slipped out of his mind, as well they might. As we 
endeavored to proceed conjointly (I speak of the same 
evening), our respective manners proved so widely dif- 
ferent that it would have been quite presumptuous in 
me to do anything but separate from an undertaking 
upon which I could only have been a clog.” Farther 

i “And it is long and lank and brown, 

As is the ribbed sea-sand,” 


XVI 


INTRODUCTION . 


on, Mr. Wordsworth writes : 4 4 The ‘ Ancient Mariner ’ 
grew and grew till it became too important for our 
first object, which was limited to our expectation of 
five pounds.” 

Coleridge’s object was “ to transfer from our inward 
nature a human interest and a semblance of truth suf- 
ficient to procure for these shadows of imagination 
that willing suspension of disbelief for the moment, 
which constitutes poetic faith.” To his success the 
sensitive reader will bear admiring testimony; for the 
real world fades away, and around us flows a sea of 
mystery and wonder, and the skeleton ship and the 
dead crew and the rearing water-snakes and the sud- 
den coming of night, all are elements of personal 
horror and fear. 

The versification is irregular, being in the style of 
the old ballads, and is extraordinarily perfect for so 
long a poem. 

During his two years’ stay at Stowey, Coleridge 
wrote in addition to the “Ancient Mariner,” which is 
considered the best of his poetical works, the first part 
of “ Christabel, ” which he considered his masterpiece; 
“ Hymn on Chamouni,” full of lofty and beautiful 
thought; “ Ode to France,” which Shelley pronounced 
the best ode in the English language; and “ Kubla 
Khan,” a fragment written from the recollection of a 
dream. The first and last are fine examples of the 
metrical harmony of which Coleridge was a master 


1NTR0DUCTJ0M. 


xvii 


The second part of “ Christabel ” was not written 
until 1800. It is inferior to the first part, but con- 
tains the lines which Coleridge considered the best 
he had ever written : — 

“ Alas ! they had been friends in youth ; 

But whispering tongues can poison truth ; 

And constancy lives in realms above ; 

And life is thorny ; and youth is vain ; 

And to be wroth with one we love, 

Doth work like madness in the brain. 

******* 

They parted ne'er to meet again ! 

But never either found another 
To free the hollow heart from paining. 

They stood aloof, the scars remaining, 

Like cliffs which had been rent asunder ; 

A dreary sea now flows between. 

But neither heat nor frost nor thunder 
Shall wholly do away, I ween, 

The marks of that which once hath been.' 

These lines have an added interest, as it has been 
conjectured that Coleridge, when he wrote them, had 
in mind his quarrel with Southey. 

“ Lyrical Ballads ” was published in the fall of 1798, 

i - . ' - ; • 

and immediately Coleridge, accompanied by the two 

- 

Wordsworths, went to Germany, — Coleridge to “com- 
plete his education,” as he said, by the study of the 
German language and philosophy. He remained 


XV111 


INTRODUCTION . 


abroad a year, coming back full of the old enthusiasm 
and large literary projects for the future. 

Then the tragedy of his life began. He had from 
boyhood been a sufferer from rheumatism and dys- 
pepsia. To allay the pain recourse was made to 
opium. The old story is again rewritten. Weak- 
willed by nature, Coleridge soon became addicted to 
the regular use of the drug; and in the pathetic lines 
in his “Ode to Dejection,” written less than two 
years after his return from Germany, he epitomizes 
what life has been to him, and what it has become, 
his only resource, what he had called his “mental 
disease : ” — 

“ There was a time when, though my path was rough, 

This joy within me dallied with distress, 

And all misfortunes were but as the stuff 

Whence Fancy made me dreams of happiness ; 

And fruits and foliage not my own seemed mine. 

But now afflictions bow me down to earth ; 

Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth, 

But oh ! each visitation 

Suspends what nature gave me at my birth, 

My shaping spirit of Imagination. 

For not to think of what I needs must feel, 

But to be still and patient, all I can ; 

And haply by abstruse research to steal 
From my own nature all the natural man — 

This was my sole resource, my only plan ; 

Till that which suits a part infects the whole, 

And now is almost grown the habit of my soul.” 


INTRODUCTION. 


xix 


The “shaping spirit of Imagination” was indeed 
suspended. The creative period of Coleridge’s liter- 
ary life had passed away. His study in Germany 
bore fruit in a most excellent translation of Wallen- 
stein, the best of his dramas ; but from 1802 to 1816, 
we have but a broken record of occasional lectures, of 
fitful newspaper work, of the flaring up of the old 
genius in the old self-delusion of huge plans for the 
future, of disappearances from the ken of faithful 
friends. 

Persuaded at last that he could not conquer the 
habit alone, Coleridge in 1816 became an inmate of 
the home of Mr. Gillman, a London physician, ex- 
pecting his stay to be temporary, but he remained 
there till his death in 1834. These eighteen years 
were by no means fruitless. The judicious care of 
Mr. Gillman, the regular habits enforced, the wise and 
loving espionage, restored to a great extent the giant 
intellect. The creative faculty was dead, indeed dead ; 
but the wonderful author of the “Ancient Mariner” 
had become the first great critic of Shakespeare, and 
it may be there is no second. 

In his “ Biographia Literaria ” he expounds with 
great clearness the doctrine of the “ Lake School,” of 
which Wordsworth was the great head. He com- 
piled his “Literary Remains;” he wrote “Aids to 
Reflection,” the best known of his prose works ; he 
elaborated the plan of his magnum opus , “The His- 


XX 


INTRODUCTION. 


tory of Philosophy,” with an immense sweep from 
Pythagoras to Locke. His “Table Talk,” compiled 
after his death, is full of delightful and stimulating 
thought; for among the great conversationalists, Cole- 
ridge stands without a peer. All this literary work, 
his later lectures, the friendship and honor, and admi- 
ration of that younger circle of literary workers raised 
him to something of his old position; and he made his 
exit from what was to him life’s troubled stage, with 
dignity. 

Coleridge seems a literary Titan, reckless and 
prodigal of the rich material of which he was mas- 
ter, fashioning now this, now that, as the fancy seized 
him, completing nothing, tantalizing us by forcing us 
to see in the light of what he could do, how little he 
had done. But he had that worst of all heritages, a 
weak will, and genius seems always subject to strange 
vicissitudes. 

“ Oh ! let him pass : he hates him 
Who would upon the rack of this tough world 
Stretch him out longer.” 


THE 



THE RIME 


ANCIENT MARINER. 

IN SEVEN PARTS. 


It is an ancient Mariner , 
And he stoppeth one of three. 


PART I. 


It is an ancient Mariner, AnancientMari- 

And he stoppeth one of three. gallants bidden 

, . , , to a wedding- 

“ By thy long grey beard and glittering eye, feast, and detain- 

Now wherefore stopp’st thou me? 


22 


THE RIME OE 


“ The Bridegroom’s doors are open wide, 
And I am next of kin; 

The guests are met, the feast is set: 
May’st hear the merry din.” 



Merrily did we drop 
Below the kirk , below the hill. 


He holds him with his skinny hand, 

“ There was a ship,” quoth he. 

“ Hold off ! unhand me, grey-beard loon ! ” 
Eftsoons his hand dropt he. 


THE ANCIENT MARINER. 


2 3 


He holds him with his glittering eye — 
The Wedding-Guest stood still, 

And listens like a three years’ child: 
The Mariner hath his will. 


The Wedding- 
Guest is spell- 
bound by the 
eye of the old 
sea-faring man, 
and constrained 
to hear his tale. 


The Wedding- Guest sat on a stone: 
He cannot choose but hear; 

And thus spake on that ancient man, 
The bright-eyed Mariner. 


“ The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared, 
Merrily did we drop 
Below the kirk, below the hill, 

Below the lighthouse top. 


“ The sun came up upon the left, 

Out of the sea came he ! 

And he shone bright, and on the right 
Went down into the sea. 


The Mariner 
tells how the 
ship sailedsouth- 
ward with a good 
wind and fair 
weather till it 
reached the 
Line. 


“ Higher and higher every day, 

Till over the mast at noon — ” 

The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast, 
For he heard the loud bassoon. 


The Bride hath paced into the hall, 
Red as a rose is she; 

Nodding their heads before her goes 
The merry minstrelsy. 


The Wedding- 
Guest heareth 
the bridal music ; 
but the Mariner 
continueth his 
tale* 


24 


THE RIME OF 


The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast, 
Yet he cannot choose but hear; 

And thus spake on that ancient man, 
The bright-eyed Mariner. 



Nodding their heads before her goes 
The merry minstrelsy. 


The ship drawn “ And now the storm-blast came, and he 

by a storm to- ,.7. . , . 

ward the south Was tyrannous and strong: 

pole ' He struck with his o’ertaking wings, 

And chased us south along. 


THE ANCIENT MARINER. 


25 


“ With sloping masts and dipping prow, 
As who pursued with yell and blow 
Still treads the shadow of his foe, 



And ice , mast-high , came floating by , 
As green as emerald. 


And forward bends his head, 

The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast, 
And southward aye we fled. 


26 


THE RIME OF 


The land of ice, ‘ 
and of fearful 
sounds where no 
living thing 
was to be seen. 


Till a great sea- ‘ 
bird, called the 
Albatross, came 
through the 
snow-fog, and 
was received 
with great joy 
and hospitality. 


And lo ! the Al-‘ 
batross proveth 
a bird of good 
omen, and fol- 
loweth the ship 
as it returned 


‘ And now there came both mist and snow, 

And it grew wondrous cold: 

And ice, mast-high, came floating by, 

As green as emerald. 

‘ And through the drifts the snowy clifts 
Did send a dismal sheen: 

Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken — 

The ice was all between. 

‘ The ice was here, the ice was there, 

The ice was all around: 

It cracked and growled, and roared and howled, 
Like noises in a swound ! 

‘ At length did cross an Albatross, 

Thorough the fog it came; 

As if it had been a Christian soul, 

We hail’d it in God’s name. 

1 It ate the food it ne’er had eat, 

And round and round it flew. 

The ice did split with a thunder-fit; 

The helmsman steered us through. 

‘ And a good south wind sprung up behind; 

The Albatross did follow, 

And every day, for food or play 
Came to the mariners’ hollo ! 


THE ANCIENT MAE/NEE. 


27 


“ In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud, 
It perched for vespers nine; 


northward 
through fog and 
floating ice. 



And every day , for food or flay, 
Came to the Mariner's hollo. 


Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white, 
Glimmered the white moon-shine.” 



28 


THE ANCIENT MAE/NEE. 


The ancient “ God save thee, ancient Mariner ! 

Mariner inhos- 

pitabiy killeth Jb rom the fiends, that plague thee thus ! — 



With my cross-bow 

I shot the Albatross. 


the pious bird Of Why look’st thou so ? ’’—“With my cross-bow 
good omen. J 

I shot the Albatross.” 



“Ah, wretch !” said they , “ the bird to slay , 
That made the breeze to blow! ” 


PART II. 

“The Sun now rose upon the right: 
Out of the sea came he, 

Still hid in mist, and on the left 
Went down into the sea. 


29 


THE RIME OF 


3 ° 


“ And the good south wind still blew behind, 
But no sweet bird did follow, 

Nor any day for food or play 
Came to the mariners’ hollo ! 


His shipmates 
cry out against 
the ancient 
Mariner, for 
killing the bird 
of good luck 


“ And I had done a hellish thing, 

And it would work ’em woe: 

For all averred, I had killed the bird 
That made the breeze to blow. 


‘ Ah wretch ! ’ said they, ‘ the bird to slay, 
That made the breeze to blow ! ’ 


But when the “ Nor dim nor red, like God’s own head, 
fog cleared off, . . . , 

they justify the The glorious Sun upnst: 

make' themselves Then all averred, I had killed the bird 

rhe°cTime C . eS m That brought the fog and mist. 

*’T was right,’ said they, ‘ such birds to slay, 

That bring the fog and mist.’ 


The fair breeze “ The fair breeze blew, and the white foam flew, 
continues; the . , . . 

ship enters the The furrow followed free; 

and sails north- We were the first that ever burst 

ward, even till it T . . .. 

reaches the Into that silent sea. 

Line. 

The ship hath “ Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down, 
becalmed denly *T was sad as sad could be; 

And we did speak only to break 
The silence of the sea ! 


“ All in a hot and copper sky, 

The bloody Sun, at noon, 

Right up above the mast did stand, 
No bigger than the Moon. 


THE ANCIENT MARINER, 


31 


“ Day after day, day after day, 

We stuck, nor breath nor motion; 
As idle as a painted ship 
Upon a painted ocean. 



As idle as a painted ship , 
Upon a painted ocean. 


“Water, water, everywhere, And the Alba- 

tross begins to be 

And all the boards did shrink; avenged. 
Water, water, everywhere, 

Nor any drop to drink. 


32 


THE RIME OF 


“ The very deep did rot. O Christ ! 
That ever this should be ! 

Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs 
Upon the slimy sea. 



Instead of the cross , the Albatross 
About my neck was hung 


“ About, about, in reel and rout 
The death-fires danced at night; 
The water, like a witch’s oils, 
Burnt green, and blue and white, 


THE ANCIENT MARINER. 


33 


“ And some in dreams assured were 
Of the spirit that plagued us so; 
Nine fathom deep he had follow’d us 
From the land of mist and snow. 


And every tongue, through utter drought, 
Was withered at the root; 

We could not speak no more than if 
We had been choked with soot. 


A spirit hath fol- 
lowed them ; one 
of the invisible 
inhabitants of 
this planet, nei- 
ther departed 
souls nor angels ; 
concerning 
whom the 
learned Jew, 

Josephus, and the Platonic Constantinopolitan, Michsel Psellus, may be 
consulted They are very numerous, and there is no climate or element 
without one or more. 


“ Ah ! well a-day ! what evil looks 
Had I from old and young ! 
Instead of the cross, the Albatross 
About my neck was hung.” 


The shipmates, 
in their sore 
distress, would 
fain throw the 
whole guilt on 
the ancient Ma- 
riner, in sign 
whereof they 
hang the dead 
sea-bird round 
his neck. 



When looking westward , I beheld 
A something in the sky. 


PART III. 


4 4 


There passed a weary time. Each throat The ancient 

Mariner tjehold- 

Was parched, and glazed each eye. ethasignin the 

element afar off 


A weary time ! a weary time ! 


How glazed each weary eye, 
When looking westward, I beheld 


A something in the sky. 


34 



THE ANCIENT MAE/NEE. 


35 


“ At first it seemed a little speck, 

And then it seemed a mist; 

It moved and moved, ahd took at last 
A certain shape, I wist. 


“ A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist ! 
And still it neared and neared: 

As if it dodged a water-sprite, 

It plunged and tacked and veered. 


“ With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, 
We could nor laugh nor wail; 

Through utter drought all dumb we stood ! 

I bit my arm, I sucked the blood, 

And cried, A sail ! a sail ! 


“ With throats unslaked, with black lips baked 
Agape they heard me call 
Gramercy ! they for joy did grin, 

And all at once their breath drew in, 

As they were drinking all. 


“ See ! see ! (I cried) ‘ she tacks no more ! 
Hither to work us weal; 

Without a breeze, without a tide, 

She steadies with upright keel ! ’ 


‘ ‘ The western wave was all a-flame, 
The day was well-nigh done ! 


At its nearer ap- 
proach, it seem- 
eth him to be a 
ship ; and at a 
dear ransom he 
freeth his speech 
from the bonds 
of thirst. 


A flash of joy; 


And horror fol- 
lows. For can it 
be a skip that 
comes onward 
without wind or 
tide? 


3 6 


THE RIME OF 


Almost upon the western wave 
Rested the broad bright Sun; 



When that strange shape drove suddenly 
Betwixt us and the sun. 


When that strange shape drove suddenly 
Betwixt us and the Sun. 


THE ANCIENT MARINER. 


37 


“ And straight the Sun was flecked with bars, 
(Heaven’s Mother send us grace !) 

As if through a dungeon grate he peered 
With broad and burning face. 


It seemeth him 
but the skeleton 
of a ship. 


“ Alas ! (thought I, and my heart beat loud) 
How fast she nears and nears ! 

Are those her sails that glance in the Sun, 
Like restless gossameres ? 


“ Are those her ribs through which the Sun 
Did peer, as through a grate ? 

And is that Woman all her crew ? 

Is that a Death ? and are there two ? 

Is Death that woman’s mate ? 


And its ribs are 
seen as bars on 
the face of the 
setting Sun. 

The Spectre- 
Woman and her 
Death mate, and 
no other, on 
board the skele- 
ton-ship. 


“ Her lips were red, her looks were free, 

Her locks were yellow as gold: 

Her skin was as white as leprosy, Like vessel, like 

The Night-mare Life-in-Death was she, 

Who thicks man’s blood with cold. 


“ The naked hulk alongside came, 
And the twain were casting dice; 

‘ The game is done ! I’ve, I’ve won ! ’ 
Quoth she, and whistles thrice. 


Death and Life- 
in-Death have 
diced for the 
ship’s crew: 

She (the latter) 
winneth the an- 
cient Mariner. 


“The Sun’s rim dips; the stars rush out: No twilight 

lit within the 

At one stride comes the dark; courts of the 

With far-heard whisper, o’er the sea, 

Off shot the spectre-bark. 


38 


THE ANCIENT MARINER. 


At the rising of 
the Moon, 


One after 
another. 


His shipmates 
drop down dead. 


But Life -in- 
Death begins her 
work on the an- 
cient Mariner. 


“ We listened and looked sideways up ! 

Fear at my heart, as at a cup, 

My life-blood seemed to sip ! 

The stars were dim, and thick the night, 

The steersman’s face by his lamp gleamed white, 
From the sails the dew did drip — 

Till clomb above the eastern bar 
The horned Moon, with one bright star 
Within the nether tip. 

“One after one, by the star-dogged Moon, 

Too quick for groan or sigh, 

Each turned his face with a ghastly pang, 

And cursed me with his eye. 

“ Four times .fifty living men, 

(And I heard nor sigh nor groan,) 

With heavy thump, a lifeless lump, 

They dropped down one by one. 

“ The souls did from their bodies fly, — 

They fled to bliss or woe ! 

And every soul, it passed me by, 

Like the whiz of my cross-bow ! ” 



I fear thee , ancient Mariner! 
I fear thy skinny hand! 


PART IV. 


“ I fear thee, ancient Mariner ! 

I fear thy skinny hand ! 

And thou art long and lank and brown, 
As is the ribbed sea-sand. 


The Wedding- 
Guest feareth 
that a spirit is 
talking to him. 


39 



40 


THE RIME OF 


But the ancient ‘ 
Mariner assureth 
him of his bodily 
life, and pro- 
ceedeth to re- 
late his horrible 
penance. 


He despiseth ‘ 
the creatures of 
the calm. 


And envieth 
that they should 
live, and so 
many lie dead. 


‘ I fear thee and thy glittering eye, 

And thy skinny hand, so brown.” — 

‘ Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guest ! 
This body dropt not down. 


‘ Alone, alone, all, all alone, 

Alone on a wide, wide sea ! 

And never a saint took pity on 
My soul in agony. 

‘ The many men, so beautiful ! 

And they all dead did lie: 

And a thousand thousand slimy things 
Lived on; and so did I. 

‘ I looked upon the rotting sea, 

And drew my eyes away; 

I looked upon the rotting deck, 

And there the dead men lay. 

‘ I looked to heaven, and tried to pray; 

But or ever a prayer had gusht, 

A wicked whisper came, and made 
My heart as dry as dust. 

‘ I closed my lids, and kept them close, 

And the balls like pulses beat; 

For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the 
Lay like a load on my weary eye, 

And the dead were at my feet. 


THE ANCIENT MARINER. 


41 


The cold sweat melted from their limbs, 
Nor rot nor reek did they: 

The look with which they looked on me 
Had never passed away. 

An orphan’s curse would drag to hell 
A spirit from on high; 

But oh ! more horrible than that 
Is the curse in a dead man’s eye ! 

Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse, 
And yet I could not die. 


But the curse 
liveth for him in 
the eye of the 
dead men. 


The moving Moon went up the sky, in his loneliness 

. , , j.j , . and fixedness he 

Andjiowhere did abide: yearneth towards 

o i* . i , . the journeying 

Softly she was going up, Moon, and the 

. , . x i • -i stars that still 

And a star or two beside — sojourn, yet still 

move onward ; 
and everywhere 
the blue sky be- 
longs to them, and is their appointed rest, and their native country and 
their own natural homes, which they enter unannounced, as lords that 
are certainly expected, and yet there is a silent joy at their arrival. 


Her beams bemocked the sultry main, 
Like April hoar-frost spread; 

But where the ship’s huge shadow lay, 
The charmed water burnt alway 
A still and awful red. 


Beyond the shadow of the ship, 

I watched the water-snakes: 

They moved in tracks of shining white, 
And when they reared, the elfish light 
Fell off in hoary flakes. 


By the light of 
the Moon he be- 
holdeth God’s 
creatures of the 
great calm, 


42 


THE RIME OF 


“ Within the shadow of the ship 
I watched their rich attire: 



The moving Moon went up the shy y 
And nowhere did abide. 


Blue, glossy green, and velvet black, 
They coiled and swam; and every track 
Was a flash of golden fire 


77/E ANCIENT MARINER. 


43 


“ O happy living things ! no tongue Their beauty 

. -ill and their hap- 

Their beauty might declare: piness. 

A spring of love gushed from my heart, 



A spring of love gushed from my heart. 
And I blessed them unaware. 


And I blessed them unaware: Heblesseth 

them in his 

Sure my kind saint took pity on me, heart. 

And I blessed them unaware. 


44 


THE RIME OF 


The spell begins “ The selfsame moment I could pray; 
And from my neck so free 
The Albatross fell off, and sank 
Like lead into the sea. 


PART V, 


* Oh sleep ! it is a gentle thing, 

Beloved from pole to pole ! 

To Mary Queen the praise be given ! 
She sent the gentle sleep from heaven, 
That slid into my soul. 


By grace of the ‘ ‘ 
holy Mother, the 
ancient Mariner 
is refreshed with 
rain. 


The silly buckets on the deck, 

That had so long remained, 

I dreamt that they were filled with dew 


And when I awoke, it rained. 


“ My lips were wet, my throat was cold, 
My garments all were dank; 

Sure I had drunken in my dreams, 
And still my body drank. 


4 ‘ I moved, and could not feel my limbs: 
I was so light — almost 
I thought that I had died in sleep, 
And was a blessed ghost. 


THE ANCIENT MAE/NEE. 


45 


And soon I heard a roaring wind: 

It did not come anear; 

But with its sound it shook the sails, 
That were so thin and sere. 


He heareth 
sounds.andseeth 
strange sights 
and commotions 
in the sky and 
the elements. 


The upper air burst into life ! 

And a hundred fire-flags sheen, 

To and fro they were hurried about ! 
And to and fro, and in and out, 

The wan stars danced between. 


And the coming wind did roar more loud, 

And the sails did sigh like sedge; 

And the rain poured down from one black cloud 
The Moon was at its edge. 

The thick black cloud was cleft, and still 
The Moon was at its side: 

Like waters shot from some high crag, 

The lightning fell with never a jag, 

A river steep and wide. 


The loud wind never reached the ship; 
Yet now the ship moved on ! 

Beneath the lightning and the Moon 
The dead men gave a groan. 


The bodies of 
the ship’s crew 
are inspired, 
and the ship 
moves on ; 


They groaned, they stirred, they all uprose, 
Nor spake, nor moved their eyes; 

It had been strange, even in a dream, 

To have seen those dead men rise. 


4 6 


THE RIME OF 


“The helmsman steered, the ship moved on; 

Yet never a breeze upblew; 

The mariners all ’gan work the ropes, 

Where they were wont to do: 

They raised their limbs like lifeless tools — 

We were a ghastly crew. 

“ The body of my brother’s son 
Stood by me, knee to knee: 

The body and I pulled at one rope, 

But he said naught to me.” 

But not by the “ I fear thee, ancient Mariner ! ” 
souls of the men, 

nor by demons “ Be calm, thou Wedding-Guest ! 
of earth or mid- 
dle air but by a ’ T was not those souls that fled in pain, 

blessfed troop of 

angelic spirits. Which to their corses came again, 

sent down by the 

invocation of the But a troop of spirits blest: 
guardian saint. 

For when it dawned — they dropped their arms, 
And cluster’d round the mast; 

Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths, 
And from their bodies passed. 

“ Around, around, flew each sweet sound, 

Then darted to the Sun; 

Slowly the sounds came back again, 

Now mixed, now one by one. 

“ Sometimes a-dropping from the sky 
I heard the skylark sing; 

Sometimes all little birds that are, 

How they seemed to fill the sea and air 
With their sweet jargoning ! 


THE ANCIENT MARINER. 


47 


‘ ‘ And now ’t was like all instruments, 
Now like a lonely flute; 

, I 

I 



Till noon we quietly sailed on , 
Yet never a breeze did breathe. 


And now it is an angel’s song, 
That makes the heavens be mute. 





48 


THE RIME OF 


“ It ceased; yet still the sails made on 
A pleasant noise till noon, 

A noise like of a hidden brook 
In the leafy month of June, 

That to the sleeping woods all night 
Singeth a quiet tune. 

“ Till noon we quietly sailed on, 

Yet never a breeze did breathe; 
Slowly and smoothly went the ship, 
Moved onward from beneath. 


The lonesome 
spirit from the 
south-pole 
carries on the 
ship as far as the 
Line, in obedi- 
ence to the 
angelic troop, 
but still requir- 
eth vengeance. 


Under the keel nine fathom deep, 
From the land of mist and snow, 
The spirit slid: and it was he 
That made the ship to go. 

The sails at noon left off their tune, 
And the ship stood still also. 


“ The Sun, right up above the mast, 

Had fixed her to the ocean: 

But in a minute she ’gan stir, 

With a short uneasy motion — 
Backwards and forwards half her length, 
With a short uneasy motion. 


“ Then like a pawing horse let go, 
She made a sudden bound: 

It flung the blood into my head, 
And I fell down in a swound. 



I heard, and in my soul discerned 
Two voices in the air. 


of the element, 
take part in his 
wrong ; and two 
of them relate, 
one to the Other, 


But ere my living life returned, 

I heard, and in my soul discerned 
Two voices in the air. 


THE ANCIENT MATINEE. 

“ How long in that same fit I lay, 

I have not to declare; 


The Polar Spir- 
it’s fellow de- 
mons, the invisi- 
ble inhabitants 


4 



5 ° 


THE RIME OF 


that penance 
long and heavy, 
for the ancient 
Mariner hath 
been accorded to 
the Polar Spirit, 
who returneth 
southward. 


‘ Is it he ? ’ quoth one, ‘ Is this the man ? 
By Him who died on cross, 

With his cruel bow he laid full low 
The harmless Albatross. 


“ ‘ The spirit who bideth by himself 
In the land of mist and snow, 

He loved the bird that loved the man 
Who shot him with his bow.’ 


“ The other was a softer voice, 

As soft as honey-dew; 

Quoth he, ‘ The man hath penance done, 
And penance more will do.’ ” 


PART VI. 

FIRST VOICE. 

“ ‘ But tell me, tell me ! speak again, 

Thy soft response renewing — 

What makes that ship drive on so fast ? 
What is the ocean doing ? ’ 

SECOND VOICE. 

“ ‘ Still as a slave before his lord. 

The Ocean hath no blast; 

His great bright eye most silently 
Up to the Moon is cast — ■ 


THE ANCIENT MARINER . 


5i 


If he may know which way to go; 
For she guides him smooth or grim. 
See, brother, see ! how graciously 
She looketh down on him.’ 


FIRST VOICE. 

‘ But why drives on that ship so fast, 
Without or wave or wind ? ’ 

SECOND VOICE. 

‘ The air is cut away before, 

And closes from behind. 


The Mariner 
hath been cast 
into a trance; for 
the angelic 
power cause th 
the vessel to 
drive northward 
faster than hu- 
man life can 
endure. 


‘ Fly, brother, fly ! more high, more high ! 
Or we shall be belated: 

For slow and slow that ship will go, 
When the Mariner’s trance is abated.’ 


“ I woke, and we were sailing on 
As in a gentle weather: 

‘ T was night, calm night, the Moon was high; 
The dead men stood together. 


The supernatural 
motion is re- 
tarded; the Ma- 
riner awakes, 
and his penance 
begins anew. 


‘ All stood together on the deck, 
For a charnel-dungeon fitter: 

All fixed on me their stony eyes, 
That in the Moon did glitter. 


‘ The pang, the curse, with which they died, 
Had never passed away: 

I could not draw my eyes from theirs, 

Nor turn them up to pray. 


52 


THE RIME OE 


The curse is “ And now this spell was snapt: once more 
finally expiated; . 

I viewed the ocean green, 

And looked far forth, yet little saw 
Of what had else been seen — 

/ 

“ Like one that on a lonesome road 
Doth walk in fear and dread, 

And having once turned round walks on, 
And turns no more his head; 

Because he knows, a frightful fiend 
Doth close behind him tread. 

“ But soon there breathed a wind on me, 
Nor sound nor motion made: 

Its path was not upon the sea, 

In ripple or in shade. 

“ It raised my hair, it fann’d my cheek, 
Like a meadow-gale of spring — 

It mingled strangely with my fears, 

Yet it felt like a welcoming. 

“ Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship, 

Yet she sailed softly too: 

Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze — 

On me alone it blew. 

And the ancient “ Oh ! dream of joy ! is this indeed 
Mariner be- 

hoideth his na- The light-house top I see ? 
tive country. 

Is this the hill ? is this the kirk ? 

Is this mine own countree ? 


THE ANCIENT MARINER, 


53 



“We drifted o’er the harbour-bar, 
And I with sobs did pray — 

O let me be awake, my God ! 

Or let me sleep alway. 


And on the bay the 7noonlight lay , 

And the shadow of the moon. 

“ The harbour-bay was clear as glass, 
So smoothly it was strewn ! 

And on the bay the moonlight lay, 
And the shadow of the moon. 


54 


THE RIME OF 


“ The rock shone bright, the kirk no less, 
That stands above the rock: 

The moonlight steeped in silentness, 
The steady weathercock. 


“ And the bay was white with silent light 
Till, rising from the same, 

The angelic Full many shapes, that shadows were, 

spirits leave the 

dead bodies. In crimson colours came. 

and appear in “A little distance from the prow 
their own forms 

of light. Those crimson shadows were: 

I turned my eyes upon the deck — 

Oh, Christ ! what saw I there ! 

“ Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat, 
And by the holy rood ! 

A man all light, a seraph-man, 

On every corse there stood. 

“ This seraph-band each waved his hand, 
It was a heavenly sight ! 

They stood as signals to the land, 

Each one a lovely light; 


“ This seraph-band, each waved his hand, 
No voice did they impart — 

No voice; but oh ! the silence sank 
Like music on my heart. 


THE ANCIENT MAE/NEE. 


55 


“ But soon I heard the dash of oars, 

I heard the Pilot’s cheer; 

My head was turned perforce away, 
And I saw a boat appear. 

“ The Pilot and the Pilot’s boy, 

I heard them coming fast: 

Dear Lord in Heaven ! it was a joy 
The dead men could not blast. 

“ I saw a third — I heard his voice: 

It is the Hermit good ! 

He singeth loud his godly hymns 
That he makes in the wood. 

He’ll shrieve my soul, he ’ll wash away 
The Albatross’s blood.” 


PART VII. 

“This Hermit good lives in that wood 
Which slopes down to the sea. 

How loudly his sweet voice he rears ! 
He loves to talk with marineres 
That come from a far countree. 

“ He kneels at morn and noon and eve 
He hath a cushion plump: 

It is the moss that wholly hides 
The rotted old oak stump. 


The Hermit of 
the wood 


5 ^ 


THE RIME OF 


“The skiff-boat neared: I heard them talk, 
‘ Why, this is strange, I trow ! 

Where are those lights so many and fair, 
That signal made but now ? ’ 



The skiff-boat neared: I heard them talk t 
“ Why, this is strange , I trow.” 


Approaches the “ ‘ Strange, by my faith ! ’ the Hermit said — 

ship with won- 

der - ‘ And they answered not our cheer. 

The planks looked warped ! And see those sails, 
How thin they are and sere ! 




THE . ANCIENT MAE/NEE. 


57 


I never saw aught like to them 
Unless perchance it were 


‘ Brown skeletons of leaves that lag 
My forest-brook along; 

When the ivy tod is heavy with snow, 
And the owlet whoops to the wolf below 
That eats the she- wolf’s young.’ 


‘ Dear Lord ! it hath a fiendish look — 
(The Pilot made reply) 

I am a-feared ’ — ‘ Push on, push on ! ’ 
Said the Hermit cheerily 


The boat came closer to the ship, 

But I nor spake nor stirred; 

The boat came close beneath the ship, 
And straight a sound was heard. 


Under tjie water it rumbled on, 

Still louder and more dread: 

It reached the ship, it split the bay; 
The ship went down like lead. 


The ship sud- 
denly sinketh. 


Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound, The ancient Ma- 
riner is saved in 

Which sky and ocean smote, the Pilot’s boat. 

Like one that hath been seven days drowned 
My body lay afloat; 

But swift as dreams, myself I found 
Within the Pilot’s boat. 


58 


THE RIME OF 


“ Upon the whirl, where sank the ship, 
The boat spun round and round; 



7 he boat came closer to the ship , 
But I nor spake nor stirred. 


And all was still, save that the hill 
Was telling of the sound. 




I took the oars: the Pilot's boy , 
Who now doth crazy go. 


THE ANCIENT MARINER. 

“ I moved my lips — the Pilot shrieked 
And fell down in a fit; 


The holy Hermit raised his eyes, 
And prayed where he did sit. 


6o 


THE RIME OP 


The ancient Ma- 
riner earnestly 
entreateth the 
Hermit to 
shrieve him ; 
and the penance 
of life falls on 
him : 


And ever and 
anon throughout 
his future life an 
agony constrain- 
eth him to travel 
from land to 
land, 


‘ I took the oars: the Pilot’s boy, 

Who now doth crazy go, 

Laughed loud and long, and all the while 
His eyes went to and fro. 

1 Ha ! ha ! ’ quoth he, ‘ full plain I see, 

The Devil knows how to row.’ 

‘ And now, all in my own countree, 

I stood on the firm land ! 

The Hermit stepped forth from the boat, 
And scarcely he could stand. 

“ ‘ O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man ! ’ 

The Hermit crossed his brow. 

‘ Say quick,’ quoth he, ‘ I bid thee say — 
What manner of man art thou ? ’ 

Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched 
With a woful agony, 

Which forced me to begin my tale; 

And then it left me free. 

“ Since then, at an uncertain hour, 

That agony returns: 

And till my ghastly tale is told, 

This heart within me burns. 

“ I pass, like night, from land to land; 

I have strange power of speech; 

That moment that his face I see, 

I know the man that must hear me: 

To him my tale I teach. 


THE ANCIENT MARINER . 


6 1 


“ What loud uproar bursts from that door ! 
The wedding-guests are there: 



To walk together to the kirk , 
And all together pray. 


But in the garden-bower the bride 
And bride-maids singing are: 

And hark the little vesper bell, 
Which biddeth me to prayer ! 


62 


THE RIME OF 


“ O Wedding-Guest ! this soul hath been 
Alone on a wide, wide sea: 

So lonely ’twas, that God himself 
Scarce seemed there to be. 


“ O sweeter than the marriage-feast, 
’ T is sweeter far to me, 

To walk together to the kirk 
With a goodly company ! — 


“ To walk together to the kirk, 

And all together pray, 

While each to his great Father bends, 
Old men, and babes, and loving friends, 
And youths and maidens gay ! 


And to teach, by “ Farewell, farewell ! but this I tell 

his own exam- 

pie, love and To thee, thou Wedding-Guest ! 
reverence to all 

things that God He prayeth well, who loveth well 
made and 

loveth. Both man and bird and beast. 


“ He prayeth best, who loveth best 
All things both great and small; 

For the dear God who loveth us, 

He made and loveth all.” 

\ 

The Mariner, whose eye is bright, 
Whose beard with age is hoar, 

Is gone: and now the Wedding-Guest 
Turned from the Bridegroom’s door. 


THE ANCIENT MARINER. 


6 3 


He went like one that hath been stunned, 
And is of sense forlorn: 

A sadder and a wiser man 
He rose the morrow morn. 



He prayeth best , who loveth best 
All things both great and small. 









































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U^P^The two volumes above also bound in one 
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The Pluedo; The Apo ogy of Socrates. Ed- 
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SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING. 

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0 014 457 956 2 ^ 

OC.LE.L I lUI v O IT IVV^IVI B 

LORD BACON. 

Stiff covers, 80 pages, price 15 cents. II lu 
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introduction and notes by Henry Morle 
LL.D., Professor of English Literature i 
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THE PRINCESS, by Alfred Tennyson. 

Sf.’ff covers, 93 pages, price 15 cents. Illu 
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Selections from the Lake Poets. 


THE ANCIENT MARINER. 

By Coleridge. With po* trait aud intr 


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* SELECTIONS FROM WORDS- 
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vi ith portrait, on introduction, notes, ar 
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Cj^Coleridge, Wordsworth, and Shelle 
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Wordsworth, Keats, and Southey, boui 
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